Back at the table Marco’s reaction is sharp: ‘Come along, Corinne, we’re going back to the hotel. I’m tired.’ But I don’t want to go. The Masai is gesticulating again to Marco. He wants to invite us, to take us tomorrow to where he lives and introduce us to his friends. I agree quickly before Marco can refuse. We agree to meet in front of the hotel.
I can’t get to sleep all night and by morning I know that it’s all over between Marco and me. He looks at me quizzically and all of a sudden it all comes out: ‘Marco, we can’t go on. I don’t know what’s happened to me with this complete stranger, I only know that I feel something that’s beyond reason.’ Marco puts his arm around me and says: ‘There, there, it’ll all be all right and when we get back to Switzerland everything will sort itself out.’ But I turn on him crossly: ‘I don’t want to go back. I want to stay here in this beautiful country, with wonderful people and above all this mesmerizing Masai.’ Marco thinks I’m mad.
The next day, as agreed, we’re standing in searing heat in front of the hotel. All of a sudden he appears on the other side of the street and comes over. He greets us briefly and says, ‘Come, come!’ and we follow him. For some twenty minutes we plough through jungle and brushwood. Here and there monkeys, sometimes half as big as we are, spring through the trees. Once again I’m astounded by the Masai’s way of walking; it’s as if he hardly touches the earth, as if he hovers, although his feet are clad in heavy sandals with car-tyre soles. In comparison, Marco and I are like elephants.
Then we see five roundhouses in a circle, just like at the hotel except much smaller and instead of concrete they’re made of piled-up stones plastered with clay. The roofs are of straw. In front of one little house sits a stocky woman with big breasts. The Masai introduces her as his friend Priscilla, and for the first time we find out the Masai’s name: Lketinga.
Priscilla greets us warmly, and to our astonishment she speaks good English. ‘You like tea?’ she asks. I thank her and accept. Marco says it’s far too hot, he’d prefer a beer. But here that will have to remain just a wish. Priscilla fetches a little spirit cooker, sets it down by our feet, and we wait for the water to boil. We tell them about Switzerland, about our jobs and ask how long they’ve been living here. Priscilla has lived by the coast for ten years, but Lketinga is new; he arrived just a month ago, which is why he speaks hardly a word of English.
We take pictures and every time I come close to Lketinga I feel physically drawn to him. I have to force myself not to touch him. We drink the tea, which is excellent but damn hot. Both of us almost burn our fingers on the enamel cups.
It begins to get dark quickly and Marco says, ‘Come on. It’s time for us to be making tracks.’ We say goodbye to Priscilla and exchange addresses, promising to write. With a heavy heart I trail behind Marco and Lketinga. Outside the hotel he asks, ‘Tomorrow Christmas, you come again to Bush Baby?’ I beam and before Marco can answer, I say, ‘Yes!’
The next day is our second to last, and I’ve made up my mind to tell my Masai that, after the end of the holiday, I’m leaving Marco. Compared with what I feel for Lketinga, everything that I have felt up until now seems laughable. Somehow I have to make that clear to him tomorrow and tell him that soon I will be coming back on my own. Only for a moment does it cross my mind that I don’t know what he might feel about me, but immediately I tell myself there is only one answer: he feels exactly the same!
Christmas day. But with temperatures of 104 degrees in the shade, there is hardly much of a Christmassy atmosphere. I make myself as attractive as possible for the evening and put on my best holiday dress. At our table we order champagne as a celebration, but it’s expensive and bad and served too warm. By ten o’clock Lketinga and his friends still haven’t shown up. What if he just doesn’t come today? Tomorrow is our last day and the following one we’re off to the airport at dawn. I stare at the door imploringly, willing him to come.
Then a Masai turns up. He looks around him and comes up to us hesitantly. ‘Hello,’ he says and asks if we’re the white people who’ve arranged to meet Lketinga. We nod, and I feel a lump in my throat and break out in perspiration. He tells us that during the afternoon Lketinga was on the beach, where natives are normally not allowed. Because of his hair and clothing, he was hassled by other blacks. As a proud warrior he defended himself and lashed out at his tormentors with his rungu, the heavy stick I had seen him carrying. The beach police had arrested him without listening to his side of the story because they couldn’t speak his language, and now he is in jail somewhere, either on the southern or northern coasts of Mombasa. This man is here to tell us that and to wish us from Lketinga a safe journey home.
Marco translates, and as I take in what has happened my world falls apart. It takes a huge effort to hold back the tears of my disappointment. I plead with Marco: ‘Ask him what we can do, we’ve only got one more day here!’ He replies coldly: ‘That’s the way things are here. There’s nothing we can do and I’ll be glad to get home.’ I’m not giving up. ‘Edy,’ that is the Masai’s name, ‘can we find him?’ Yes, he will go round the other Masai this evening and get some money together and tomorrow morning at ten he will set out to try and find him. It will be difficult because nobody knows which of the five jails he’s been taken to.
I ask Marco if we can go too; the man had helped us, after all. After a lot of humming and hawing he finally agrees, and we arrange to meet Edy at ten outside the hotel. I can’t sleep all night. I still don’t know what’s the matter with me, but I know that I want to, have to see Lketinga again before I go back to Switzerland.
The Search Party
Marco changed his mind and decided to stay at the hotel. He keeps trying to persuade me not to go ahead with this, but no well-meant advice has a chance against the force that’s driving me. So I leave him behind with a promise to be back by two p.m. Edy and I head for Mombasa in a matatu; it’s the first time I’ve used this type of taxi. It’s a small bus with about eight seats, but when it stops there are already thirteen people on board, jammed between their luggage. The ticket inspector hangs on outside. I’m staring speechless into the crush. ‘Go, go in!’ says Edy, and I climb over bags and legs, hanging on bent-double for fear of falling on people at corners.
Thank God we get out after just nine miles. We’re in Ukunda, the first big village that has a jail. We go in together. But before my foot has even crossed the threshold, a beefy character stops us. I throw Edy a questioning look. He negotiates, I’m told to stay where I am. After several minutes the big man opens a door behind him. Standing in the bright sunshine, looking into the darkness, I can make out next to nothing. But there’s such a stink coming out that a wave of nausea hits me. The hefty guy shouts something into this dark hole, and a few seconds later a completely wild-looking individual emerges, apparently a Masai but without any of the usual tribal ornaments. I shake my head in horror and ask Edy, ‘Is he the only Masai here?’ Apparently so. The prisoner is thrown back in with the others huddled on the floor. We turn and leave. Edy says: ‘Come on, we’ll take a matatu – they’re faster than the big buses – and look in Mombasa.’
We take the Likoni ferry again and then the bus to the edge of the city, where there’s another jail. It’s much bigger than the last one. Here too I get harsh looks because I’m white. The man behind the barrier pays no attention to us, just leafs uninterestedly through his newspaper, leaving us at a loss what to do. I nudge Edy: ‘Go on, ask!’ But nothing happens until Edy tells me I should slip the man a few Kenyan shillings. He doesn’t say how many. I’ve never had to bribe anybody in my life before. I set down a hundred Kenyan shillings, which is about ten Swiss francs. He trousers the cash almost without noticing it and at long last looks up at us. No, no Masai called Lketinga has been brought in recently. There are two Masai here but both are much smaller than the man we’re describing. I still want to see them; after all, he might be wrong and he’s already got his money. He gives me a black look but gets up and opens a door.
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I am shocked by what I see: a crowd of people crammed together in a room without windows, some sitting on cardboard boxes, others on newspapers or on the concrete floor. Blinded by the sudden light, they hold their hands up to their eyes. Only a narrow space to walk has been left between these cowering human beings and in a minute I see why; a prison worker appears and throws a bucket of ‘food’ in, directly onto the concrete. Unbelievable: even pigs are treated better! At the word ‘Masai’ two of them come forward, but neither is Lketinga. I’m losing hope. What on earth do I expect when I find him?
We drive in to the city centre, take another matatu and rattle along for an hour towards the northern coast. Edy tries to calm me down, saying he must be here. But we don’t even get as far as the door. An armed policeman asks what we want. Edy tells him, and he shakes his head, says they haven’t had anyone new brought in for two days. We leave. By now, I’m despairing.
Edy says it’s already late and if I want to be back by two, we have to hurry. But I don’t want to go back to the hotel. I only have today left to find Lketinga. Edy suggests we try the first jail again because inmates sometimes get moved from place to place. So in the sweltering heat we drive back towards Mombasa.
Crossing the river, our ferryboat passes another and I notice there are almost no people on board, just vehicles. One in particular stands out: a bright green van with barred windows. Edy says it’s the prison transport van. I feel sick at the thought of the poor creatures inside but think no more of it. I’m tired, thirsty and sweaty all over. By two-thirty, we’re back in Ukunda.
There’s a new guard outside the jail now, and he’s a lot friendlier. Edy explains once again who we’re looking for and there’s a lively discussion of which I understand nothing. ‘Edy, what’s going on?’ He tells me that barely an hour ago Lketinga was taken off to the north coast, where we’ve just come from. He had been in Kwale, then was here for a short while and now is on his way to the jail where he will be kept until standing trial.
I’m starting to go mad. All morning we’ve been charging around and not half an hour ago he went right past us in the green prison wagon. Edy looks at me helplessly. We ought to get back to the hotel, he says, and tomorrow he’ll try again, now that he knows where Lketinga is. I can give him the money, and he’ll bail him out.
I only need a second to decide: I ask Edy to go back to the north coast with me. He’s not exactly delighted but agrees to come along. We travel the whole way back in silence and the whole time I’m asking myself: Corinne, why are you doing this? What on earth do I want to say to Lketinga? I have no idea, there’s just this force driving me.
Just before six we’re back at the jail on the north side. The same armed man is still standing there. He recognizes us and tells us Lketinga was brought in two and a half hours ago. I perk up immediately. Edy tells him we want to get the Masai out, but the guard shakes his head and says there’s no way that’s going to happen before New Year because the prisoner hasn’t been processed yet and the jail’s governor is on holiday until then.
I’d thought of everything except that. Even money won’t get Lketinga out. By pleading and wheedling, I manage to get the guard to understand that I’m leaving tomorrow and let me see Lketinga for just ten minutes. And the next thing he comes strolling into the courtyard with a beaming smile. I’m horrified. His jewellery is all gone, his hair is tied up under a dirty cloth, and he smells appallingly. Even so he seems happy to see us and surprised only that I’m here without Marco. I could scream! He understands nothing! I tell him that we’re flying home tomorrow but I’ll be back as soon as I can. I write my address down and ask him for his. Hesitantly and with some difficulty he writes his name and a P.O. Box number. I manage to give him money, and then the warder takes him away again. As he’s going, he turns around, says thank you and sends his best wishes to Marco.
We head back, waiting for a bus as the darkness falls. Only now do I realize how exhausted I am and suddenly burst into uncontrollable sobbing. Everybody in the crammed matatu stares at the wailing white woman with the Masai, but I couldn’t care less: I want to die.
While we’re waiting for the ferry, Edy says: ‘No bus, no matatu to Diani Beach.’ At first I think I haven’t heard him right. ‘After eight p.m. no more public buses to the hotel.’ I don’t believe it! We’re standing there in the dark, by the ferry, and the other side is as far as we can get. I wander between the waiting cars, looking for white people inside. There are two returning safari buses. I knock on the window and ask if they can give me a lift. The driver says no, he’s not allowed to take any strangers. The occupants are Indian and in any case all the seats are full. At the last minute a car pulls onto the ramp, and I have a stroke of luck. Sitting in it are two Italian nuns. I explain my situation to them and under the circumstances they agree to take me and Edy back to the hotel.
For the next three quarters of an hour, as we drive through the darkness, I start to worry about Marco: how he’s going to react. I would understand if he gave me a clip around the ear, I deserve it. I almost hope he’ll do something like that; that’ll bring me to my senses. I still don’t understand what’s got into me, why I seem to have lost control of my capacity for reason. The only thing I know is that I’m more tired than I’ve ever been in my life and for the first time feel afraid, of Marco and of myself.
At the hotel I say goodbye to Edy, and a few minutes later I’m standing in front of Marco. He looks at me sadly. No shouting, no big words, just this look. I throw my arms around him and burst into tears again. Marco takes me into our little hut and tries to calm me down. I had been prepared for anything except such a loving welcome. He just says: ‘It’s all okay, Corinne. I’m just glad you’re still alive. I was about to go to the police and make a missing person report. I had almost given up hope of ever seeing you again. Can I get you something to eat?’ Without waiting for an answer he goes out and comes back with a plate piled high. It looks delicious, and for his sake I eat as much as I can. He waits until we’ve finished before he asks: ‘Well, did you at least find him?’ ‘Yes,’ I say and tell him everything. He looks at me and says: ‘You’re crazy but strong-willed. When you want something, you don’t give up. Why can’t I take the place of this Masai?’ The answer is that I don’t know. I can’t explain, even to myself, what secret magic there is about this man. If anyone had told me two weeks ago I would fall in love with a Masai warrior, I would have laughed out loud. Now my life has been thrown into chaos.
On the flight home, Marco asks: ‘What’s going to happen to us now, Corinne? It’s up to you.’ It hurts to make Marco understand how confused I feel. ‘I’ll find myself another apartment as soon as possible, even though it won’t be for very long. I’m going back to Kenya. Maybe for good,’ I reply. Marco just shakes his head sadly.
A Long Six Months
It takes two months before I find a new apartment outside Biel. Moving is easy: I take only my clothes and a few personal items, the rest I leave to Marco. The hardest thing is leaving my two cats, but seeing as I’m leaving anyhow, it’s the only solution. I keep working at the shop but with less enthusiasm because Kenya is on my mind all the time. I get hold of everything I can find about the country, including its music. All day long in the shop I listen to Swahili songs. My customers notice I’m not as attentive as I used to be, but I can’t or won’t explain.
Every day I wait for the post and then finally, after three months, I get a letter. Not from Lketinga, but from Priscilla. She tells me that Lketinga was let out of prison three days after we left. That same day I write to the address I got from Lketinga and tell him of my plan to return to Kenya in June or July, alone this time.
Another month crawls by, and finally I get a letter from Lketinga. He thanks me for my help and says he’d be happy if I were to visit his country again. That same day I charge into a travel agent’s and book three weeks in July at the same hotel.
There’s nothing to do now but wait. Time seems to stand sti
ll; days crawl one after another. Of the friends Marco and I had in common, there’s only one left who still calls me up from time to time, and we meet for a glass of wine. At least he seems to understand me. The departure day draws steadily closer, and I get restless because only Priscilla answers my letters. And then my resolve steels itself again, and I am as convinced as ever that this man is all I need to be happy.
In the meantime I have learned to make myself more or less understood in English. My friend Jelly gives me daily lessons. With three weeks still to go, my little brother Eric and Jelly, who’s going out with him, decide to come with me. I’ve got through the longest six months of my life. We fly out.
The Reunion
July 1987. After more than nine hours’ flying time we land in Mombasa. We plunge into the same heat, the same incredible atmosphere. Only this time, everything is familiar: Mombasa, the ferry, the long bus journey to the hotel.
I can hardly wait. Will he be there, or won’t he? We’re standing in reception, and immediately there’s a ‘Hello!’ behind me. We turn around and there he is! He laughs and comes up to me, beaming. All at once the six months are swept away. I nudge him and say, ‘Jelly, Eric, here he is: Lketinga!’ My brother fiddles embarrassedly in his pocket, but my friend Jelly smiles and gives him her hand. I introduce them but for the moment I dare no more than a handshake myself.
In the general chaos we settle in to our little hut while Lketinga waits at the bar. At last I can ask Jelly, ‘Well, what do you think of him?’ She’s searching for words and says, ‘He’s certainly something special, perhaps I’ll have to get used to him. Right now he seems a bit foreign and wild-looking.’ My brother has no opinion. The obsession is mine and mine alone, I think somewhat disappointedly.